


Over the Summit

by unkissed



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Asphyxiation, Ass to Mouth, Attempted Murder, Blow Jobs, Bottom Hux, Cheating, Dark, Dubious Consent, Emperor Hux, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Infidelity, Kylo's PoV, M/M, Murder, One Shot, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Power Struggle, Rimming, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence, Stand Alone, Strangulation, Top Kylo Ren, Triggers, Unrequited Love, Violence, fucked by The Force, post-TFA, reference to a triad, reference to bottom Kylo, reference to polyamory, reference to top hux, uncontrolled use of the force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 14:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5874355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What goes over the summit of The Highland does not return the same.</p><p>It is the dawn of the Triumvirate Empire.  Kylo Ren and Emperor Hux fuck astride the ruins of a conquered civilization, subsequently betraying Phasma by violating the terms of their politically advantageous polyamorous triad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over the Summit

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in second person POV from Kylo's perspective. This is not a reader insert. 'You' refers to Kylo. 
> 
> Reviews, constructive criticism, and positive reinforcement are gold.

 

“Over the Summit”

 

Mounted upon a turbo speeder, you ride fast through the seemingly endless forest, under the blue gloom of two dim moons. His arms are fastened at your waist, holding you tightly with his body pressed against your back. He has affixed himself to you just to keep warm, he says, and claims that safety is of no concern to him on reckless nights such as this – when the sun hides for many cold, desolate hours and deprives your planet of daylight and warmth. But he’s not the reckless type.

 

You really shouldn’t be out at night. A self-enforcing curfew begins when the sun goes down and the temperature plummets dangerously below freezing. It’s _his_ law. Not yours. Arguably, he _is_ the law, and it amuses you to ponder the dual meaning of being above said law.

 

This world is too much like that _other_ world for your liking - The world of ice and snow that had been transformed into a solar weapon of mass destruction under his command – the world you barely escaped with your life. You know he’s not thinking of doing _that_ again. Unlike his forbearers, he strongly takes history and statistical analysis into consideration. At least he does _now_.

 

Still, you wonder what compelled him to make this the seat of the Empire – this sparsely populated, untamed, miserable snowball. He had his pick of hundreds of cities on many worlds. Lush, verdant paradises with temperate climates and malleable inhabitants. Extensive, organized metropolises with innovative culture and silver towers that touch the sky. Of all the worlds, why make this one home, at the very edge of his dominion, skirting upon The Unknown Regions? He will give you dozens of reasons, all very practical and strategic, but none of them touch upon what’s really in his heart.

 

This is Coryza Algus, the furthest inhabited planet from the sun in the Lambda Five system, which is the furthest solar system from the historic center of the galaxy. Not exactly the most convenient government hub. But it’s an advantageous location, should one need to make a quick escape into the unexplored territories. Of course, he claims that the advantage lies in _Manifest Destiny_ – from here, you are at the forefront of the infinite frontier, into which he may expand his empire.

 

 

You are speeding toward what’s simply known as The Highland. The Highland is a colossal, uninhabited mountain range. To travel here after dark without a crew of native outdoorsmen to guide you is careless, and frankly stupid, especially in the winter when the night is oppressively long. It has been twenty hours since the sun last set. It will be another ten before it rises again.

 

As you weave between the ancient old growth trees, the black lines of slender trunks blur in your peripheral vision. The average person could not navigate these woods at this suicidal speed, but you are not the average person.

 

And neither is he.

 

When you reach the first ridge of The Highland, you kill the turbo engine and set the speeder upon the snow. He takes off his helmet and sets his hair straight. You inwardly muse that it’s been a long time since you last saw The Emperor outside the imperial palace without his crown, quite possibly not since prior to his coronation.

 

He immediately flips up the fur-lined hood of his heavy, wool cloak to protect his perfect hair from the wind and the cold. He’s wearing civilian clothing. You’ve never seen him out of his formal attire or his uniform, except when naked. And _that_ you’ve seen a lot of lately.

 

“Have you brought me here to assassinate me, Kylo?” he asks jokingly, but a flutter in his heartbeat, to which you’ve become attuned, reveals his real concern.

 

“I could slit your throat while you sleep beside me in your nice, warm bed,” you reply. You had not meant it to sound like a threat, but it is impossible for you to say such things without sounding genuinely murderous. “Why would I go through the trouble of freezing my ass off to kill you?”

 

“Then _why_?” he prods, pulling his cloak tighter around his body, making that face he always has when he’s lost his patience.

 

“We could keep on going. Vault over the summit. Go down into the valley.” Your voice is emotionless. He can’t tell if you’re sincere. He looks worried that you are.

 

You step to the edge of the ridge that overlooks Hiems, the preexisting hunting village beside which the Imperial Capital of Adorian sits on the banks of a vast river. The harsh incandescence of the city lights emerge from the center of the warm glow of firelight in the haphazard streets of Hiems.

 

“And then what?” Instead of sounding impatient and annoyed, he sounds soft and curious. He comes up behind you and snakes his arms around you, drawn once again to your warmth.

 

“Leave,” you reply, so quietly that you wonder if you actually spoke it aloud at all, or simply put the thought into his head.

 

His chin digs into your shoulder. His breath is hot against your cheek, and you shudder from the contrast it makes against the biting chill of the night air. “You’re not a prisoner here. You can come and go as you please.” The tightness of his arms and of his voice make you believe otherwise.

 

The lights and the fires, and the comforts from where they burn, beckon you back, but only for a moment.

 

“I can’t do as I please any more than you can,” you respond resolutely, “Power of the highest degree enslaves you to responsibility. We did not amass this empire just to wreck it like spoiled children with too many toys.”

 

“Spoken wisely, Ren,” he says, sounding impressed, and kisses you on the cheek. “You’re quite poignant when you’re not regurgitating mystical nonsense that Snoke fed you.”

 

When he says that name, he snorts derisively. It still bothers you how irreverent he remains to the one who orchestrated the reemergence of The Empire. Snoke: Simulated Neurologic Optical Kinetic Entity. The archived and digitized consciousness of Darth Plagueis. During Snoke’s rule, few knew that the now-deactivated Supreme Leader of The First Order was merely self-aware artificial intelligence.

 

 

“So, what is this crazy talk about leaving?” Hux asks.

 

You are quiet for a long time before you answer, during which you inwardly beleaguer yourself to shut up and pretend it was a bad joke. But you are terrible at censoring your words and your emotions. “Haven’t you ever wanted to just leave here and be ordinary?”

 

“Of course not,” he answers without even pondering it. “That would be miserably dull. Not to mention, depressing. What is the point of living, if not to leave a legacy behind?”

 

“Simply existing is a miracle all on its own. One can be at peace if they can reconcile that life is the only reason to live,” you say, reciting doctrines you’d studied long ago. You have always embodied both the light side and the dark side of The Force. Now, you allow both to coexist in a delicate balance, rather than constantly battling with yourself.

 

You don’t have to see his eyes rolling to know he’s doing it. “You’re spouting mystical bullshit again and it’s terribly boring. Can we save the existentialist discussion for a warmer and more comfortable setting?”

 

He’s impatient again, and clearly eager to make the most of your audacious escape from the imperial palace, evident by his gloved hands shoving into the pockets of your cloak. You reach behind to lazily thread your fingers into his hair. He dots soft kisses on the side of your neck.

 

“You know I’m not ungrateful,” you insist quietly, “My wanderlust has little to do with Adorian as a place.”

 

“Yes, yes, I know,” he says loftily, “No need to thank me for this city I built in _your_ honor.” His hand comes out of your pocket to gesture at said city in the distance.

 

“ _Our_ honor,” you correct him.

 

“Right,” he drawls, planting open-mouthed kisses on your neck between his words, “Adorian. The city I created in tribute to the two whom I revere above all others… because apparently my cock alone is not sufficient gratitude to you and Phasma for winning the galaxy for us.”

 

Even through the heavy outerwear, you can still feel the insistent press of his erection against your backside. It reminds you why you’re here, talking wistfully about escapism and existentialism.

 

“I want a place just for _us_. For you and me.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, you realize how needy and juvenile they sound. You’d blush if your nearly-frost-bitten cheeks could become redder than they are.

 

He stops. His arms come away and he moves to stand in front of you. His eyes level with yours. “It’s against everything that brought us here. We destroyed The New Republic as a triumvirate. We defeated The Resistance as a triumvirate. We conquered the galaxy and built our empire as a triumvirate. We break that, and it is tantamount to launching civil war. This is not my empire. This is The Triumvirate Empire. And it only stands as long as the three of us stand together, undivided. No factions.”

 

You feel like a child being scolded and lectured for simply having ideas. It’s like being at that infernal Jedi school with Uncle Luke. And just as you were then, so are you now insolent and ireful.

 

“No factions, hm?” You raise an accusatory brow at him. “What’s this, then?” You gesture tersely between the two of you. “You agreed to this. _You_ did. _You_ broke the rules of our triad when you agreed to come with me alone, without informing Phasma. I did not steal you away against your will. So don’t fucking remind me about the sanctity of the Triumvirate when you’re in the middle of breaking it.”

 

He is quiet and flustered. He knows you’re right. But he hates to admit it. “We’re at the bloody edge of town freezing our balls off. I fail to see how this violates the ‘ _sanctity of the Triumvirate’_.” He uses his fingers to put the words into quotation marks.

 

You can’t help but grin at him smugly. “You came here so you could fuck me, away from Phasma.” He’s never been able to hide his true intentions from you, and neither have you been able to hide yours from him. Not that there could be any other reason for leaving the imperial palace disguised as commoners in the dead of a long, cold night. You both knew exactly what you were doing. It’s just taking him a long time to admit it to himself.

 

He furrows his brow deeply as he opens and closes his mouth several times in failed attempts at verbalizing his frustration. Soon, he gives up entirely with a resigned huff and pulls you close by the front of your cloak.

 

“Yes, I wanted to fuck you alone,” he admits in a low growl with his lips brushing yours.

 

Your lips curve at the ends as he kisses you. You’re like a boy all over again, hoping that he can’t tell how stupidly you’re smiling or how hard you’re swooning. It’s far from a sentimental statement, but you can feel what he means. He wants _you_. _Just_ you.

 

 

You shouldn’t want him all to yourself. You’re supposed to share him with Phasma, just like she shares you with him, and just like you both share her with each other. But sharing has never come easily to you. You’d always been bitter that it came so easily to them. How unimportant you must be to them if they so readily trade you.

 

And if we’re really being honest here, the way you feel towards Phasma is mostly platonic - physical, but still platonic. She’s a means to an end. Like Hux had said, you’d all be nowhere if it were not for your unique union. There is no doubt of the metaphysical bond between you. Her connection to you is essential to keeping you strong with The Force, just as much as he is.

 

But him – he’s different. You’ve always felt differently about him, right from the start, even before the Empire was within your reach. You’ve always felt strongly about him. You have never hated Phasma. But you hated Brendol Hux once. Though your regard for him is now inverted, it is equal in magnitude.

 

 

He’s kissing you harder now, plundering your mouth with his tongue, tangling his fingers in your hair to keep you close, insistently reminding you that his erection needs attention as he nudges the top of your thigh. You’re going numb from the cold, but he inspires an upwelling of heat from your core that makes your skin crack and sting as it thaws too quickly. He makes you sweat inside your winter gear, and in turn, it makes you shiver uncontrollably. You are made miserably aware of just how much it physically hurts to love him.

 

You’re desperate now. You want to feel his skin and taste his desire pulsing upon your tongue. You want him to possess you entirely and wholly – not as part of an advantageous political pact. You want all those bothersome words like _us,_ and _we,_ and _ours,_ to only pertain to you and him. You want him inside you, deeply fucking you, selfishly drawing upon only _your_ blissful heat and only _your_ tightness to make him come.

 

“Over the summit,” you manage to mumble breathlessly, “There’s a primitive village.”

“I know it. The Kartolith ruins. We killed them all when we colonized the planet.” He says this without remorse. He is unrepentant to the point of being smug. You know how conquest makes his cock twitch.

 

“I can get the speeder over the mountain, but I’ll be weakened by the effort,” you explain, undeterred.

 

He grins wryly as he reaches down to cup your own growing need in his palm. “You’re going to use The Force to get laid? Is that not against its principles?”

 

You nip his bottom lip with your teeth and chuckle lowly. You love it when he’s cheeky, like the veritable boy-commander you met long ago.

 

 

In the ruins of the Kartolith settlement are remnants of huts made of massive animal bones. They are primal, ancient looking structures, reflecting the rudimentary nature of the Kartolith civilization. It’s just as well that they had been obliterated. They were never going to progress as a species.

 

A few of the huts remain intact, somehow untouched by the First Order’s arsenal of firepower. The Kartoliths hadn’t stood a chance with their stone weapons. Their bodies are long gone, picked off by scavenging animals. Not even a scorched skull remains.

 

You build a campfire, unable to forget that it had been your resourceful mother who had taught you how to do it. Humor sometimes chases away the ghosts of your family, and so you pretend to light the fire with your lightsaber. But you don’t switch it on and you laugh at the way Hux had flinched when you swung the hilt. Instead, you snap your fingers and send a spark of lightning to the pile of sticks and logs.

 

“Show off,” he scoffs, pretending not to be impressed, but you know he is.

 

He’s smirking because he’s proud. He’s proud of the way you’ve mastered The Force, but mostly, he’s proud of himself for acquiring such a powerful lover.

 

 

The fire rises quickly inside the hut, and the smoke filters through natural vents in the pores of the bone walls. Perhaps the Kartoliths had been smarter than they’d looked. The heat feels heavenly as you strip away your clothes and make them into a bed of wool and poly-carbon fiber.

 

You’re staring at him unabashedly from your reclining position on the makeshift bed as he peels his last garments away to reveal pink splotches on snow white skin. He’s beautiful and glorious, even without the regalia – he has always exuded royalty, even naked. The firelight casts him in eerie shadows, and you muse that he looks like a prince of Hell, with his silver eyes and his infernal red hair and his cold exterior.

 

That unaffected façade does not fool you. Not that he’s pretending. He’s stoic to a fault. But you know what he’s feeling, because he feels it so fucking hard that you feel it too. And perhaps this is why you believe that you are entitled to The Emperor’s cock and The Emperor’s heart more than Phasma – because you know him from the inside. You know him in ways she can never know him, both physically and emotionally. You’ve shared more than his body. You’ve seen his thoughts in the deepest recess of his consciousness. You’ve felt his pain and his desire directly at their source, and you’ve made them your own.

 

He belongs to you – can’t he see that? You have combed through his mind for any sign of this. And even now, as you share something so personal that it transcends all ordinary human contact, he is completely oblivious to the magnitude of your bond.

 

You will just have to show him, here, with a mountain isolating him from his kingdom, away from the woman who has secret aspirations to ascend from Grand Admiral to Empress.

 

 

When he drapes his body over yours and nestles between your legs, he fits perfectly. Every protruding notch of bone has a corresponding dip in which to fit; every swell of muscle has a corresponding curve in which it is cradled. All of him aligns with all of you.

 

His gaze hovers. He’s searching your eyes, hoping you’ll yield some sort of secret to you. Without the power of The Force, he can only read you like an ancient tome – the words are familiar but their meaning is lost. And he knows that he has opened his thoughts to be plundered as he continues to stare, but he can’t help it.

 

You enter the cloud of his emotions and let them take you over. You feel him from the inside. He is insatiable Desire. He is selfish Need. You alone are not enough, and this revelation breaks you. You crack under the weight of what you have found – what you _always_ find whenever you search – because you’re so fucking sick of looking for what’s simply not there.

 

The Emperor does not love anyone but himself.

 

But you would not be the notoriously indomitable Kylo Ren if you were deterred in your mission to make him yours.

 

Your touch is unhurried when your fingertips trace down the arc of his spine and come to rest on his bottom, splayed in a possessive grasp. He presses his hips down without you needing to push, but you do it anyway to make him press harder. His cock grinds against the crease of your inner thigh and courts your own growing arousal.

 

His mouth hovers just out of reach, taunting you with wet, parted lips. He needs you to want him desperately more than he needs your kiss. He will wait there until you die before he surrenders his lips to you. When you give in and arch up to take his mouth between your teeth, the thin, winter-worn skin on his lips splits. You relish the metallic tang of blood on your tongue. The flavor is amplified because you taste him twice – in your mouth, and in your head.

 

Like a ravenous creature, the first taste of blood awakens a violent need inside you. Your fingers clamp onto the back of his neck – your blunt nails, like battle-dulled talons, dig into his skin. You will make him kiss you until you’re through with him - not the other way around. Teeth and tongue clash as you devour one another like mad beasts, drunk on power and conquest.

 

You release your death grip and leave him breathless. The flush of pink, high on his cheeks, is so pretty that you could lick his face. But instead, you take your own finger into your mouth and make a show of wetting it. He quirks a brow, wordlessly questioning your intentions.

 

You press your spit-slicked finger into the furrow of his taut bottom. He has never let you in. Even bloody Phasma has dipped into his tight ass with an attachable phallus. But you’ve been deprived of the pleasure. He knows you’d destroy him in every sense of the word.

 

He instinctively clenches his muscles beneath your touch and whispers a gentle reprimand. “Kylo…”

 

You stare up at him purposefully with a distant glint in your dark eyes. “You are going to let me fuck you,” you insist quietly.

 

He screws his eyes shut and shakes you off the surface of his mind like snow in his hair. “Get out,” he snarls quietly between gritted teeth.

 

He is one of the few people who can deflect your mental intrusions, and only because the bond you share somehow allows him to do so. It is one of the many mysteries of The Force that had not been imparted to you by your teachers before you abruptly ended your apprenticeships.

 

“Arsehole,” he hisses indignantly, “Just fucking ask.”

 

You roll your eyes and begrudgingly ask with an annoyed sigh, “Can I fuck you?” You suddenly remember that he is less likely to give you what you want when you’re being, what Phasma would term, an _impertinent_ _brat_. So you soften your tone of voice and cup his cheek in your palm. “Please? I’ll be careful. Promise.”

 

A ginger fan of lashes flutters as his eyelids close at your gentle touch. Your thumb reverently brushes the soft, pink skin over his high cheekbone. He takes a slow, deep breath through his nose. He’s already succumbed to you, but his rigid sense of reason is getting the best of him, as it often does.

 

He asks, still with eyes closed, “Are you even capable?”

 

“Of fucking you?” you bristle. “Have I ever given you reason to believe that I’m _in_ capable?”

 

His eyes open and he chuckles as he clarifies, “Being careful. Are you even capable of _being careful_.”

 

 

You’ve given him solid reason to believe that you are, in fact, not capable of being careful. He’s seen you tear Phasma apart and leave crimson smears across the embroidered Imperial insignia on his white bed sheets – staining evidence of the enraged vindictiveness with which you fuck her. You hate that Hux has always been compelled to be gentle with Phasma directly after you’ve wrecked her. She is more resilient than Hux will ever acknowledge. You know Phasma is just playing to what little empathy he has in order to gain his favor. Telling him so always makes you sound like more of a cruel sadist than you really are.

 

 

“I’ll show you,” you whisper tenderly as your fingertip traces the trench along his spine.

 

When you reach the full swell of his ass, your touch is feather-light. You tease him, skirting the same place you’d tried to intrude upon moments before. He lets you deeper into the furrow and the gentle touch tickles him in a pleasant way. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from smiling or from giggling – you’re not sure which, because this part of him so rarely makes an appearance.

 

When you prod further, he gasps softly then quickly follows with nervous laughter to cover his embarrassment. “Careful, Ren.” He doesn’t want you to know just how reactive he is to your touch – how easily he falls prey to it.

 

He slips his hand behind your back and takes you with him as he rolls over. You smirk at how readily he has succumbed to you, but your triumph is short lived.

 

“You’re going to earn it,” he says. The tone of his voice makes it clear that his coyness had been a momentary lapse.

 

With a firm hand on your shoulder, he directs you to where he wants you to go. But you won’t go there quickly. You take your time because you love it when he becomes impatient and desperate. You dot kisses down his chest, matching the quickening rhythm of its rise and fall. Your kisses become wet when you reach his abdomen. You pause as you approach his navel and feel his fingers clench when you linger too long. Further down, you nuzzle into the warm, musky nest of soft, ginger curls. His masculine scent elicits a flood of adrenaline within your veins, which triggers the primal urge to fight or fuck.

 

But you rein in your impulses because you have something to prove. Your cheek brushes along the hard length of his cock as you tilt your head back to look at him. He gets off watching Kylo _Fucking_ _Badass Dark Jedi Knight_ Ren on his dick more than the sensation of your mouth. Of course, you’re going to make a display of it. You grin darkly while you tease him, turning your face ever so slightly to let his cock brush the corner of your mouth.

 

He smirks down at you as he takes his cock by its base and gently smacks it against your cheek. “Don’t be a tease.”

 

He not-so-secretly loves it when you’re a tease.

 

You poise your puckered lips above the reddened head of his erection and hover there as a glistening thread of saliva drips down to meet a bead of pre-come leaking from the slit. It dribbles down the side of his cock, and so you flatten your tongue against him to lap it up. You paint soft lines of adoration upon his turgid flesh as you lick him, punishingly slow, from base to tip. He tastes of briny sweat and bittersweet sex. You feel his eagerness as palpably as if it were emerging from your own aching cock. You sense and taste and breathe in his desire for you, and it is enough to make you fracture.

 

You give in and take him wholly into your mouth. The sound of agonizing surrender that escapes from his parted lips makes your heart swell with painful longing. You are so desperate for his love that you confuse pleasure with adoration. You want to hear your name sailing on a blissful sigh.

 

The harder you suck and pull the foreskin over the head with each upward motion, the harder he grips your shoulder. You will make him leave marks on your skin where his fingers had been, and you won’t care that Phasma will see the evidence of your betrayal.

 

Your tongue cradles his dick as you slide over it with a languid, steady rhythm. You are relishing this as much as he is because you’re secretly his wanton cock slut, and you think that there is no greater honor than to have an emperor’s dick in your mouth.

 

You know exactly how he likes it. You purposefully scrape your teeth along his sensitive flesh on the next upswing. A sharp intake of air, followed by a shuddering _fucking hell Kylo,_ assures you that he doesn’t mind. You spit harshly and then, ever so carefully, you gently gnaw at the tip of his cock, scraping your own saliva off the smooth head. The escalating pitch of his moans confirms that he does indeed want it _like that_ – rough and messy, brutal and wet. You probably would not love him as hopelessly as you do if he did not harbor such dark predilections.

 

His balls are drawn up tightly as you cradle him in your palm. You know he’s close. But you don’t want him to finish this way. You leave him with a few more deft passes at his cock with your hot mouth before depriving him of it.

 

He protests your abrupt departure with a breathy, _Ren, you fucking arsehole._

 

You force his legs back with your hands splayed over the bottom of his thighs and tongue the line behind his balls. He arches off the bed of discarded clothes when you reach his most sacred of places. He tastes like nothing you’ve ever known, and everything you’ve ever wanted.

 

He invites you in deeper with the swiftness of his pulse and the purr coming from low in his throat. You lick devious circles around his blossoming hole before dipping inside. And you wonder how he’s so composed while your tongue conquers the last vestiges of his unexplored flesh. A little further, and he starts to break beneath the sweet torture of your tongue. He swears fluently and pairs your name with every dirty word in his impressive lexicon. He manages to seem indignant while concurrently sounding like a slut. Of course, Brendol Hux, Emperor of the fucking galaxy, is a bossy bottom.

 

You spit hard, and it’s as much to degrade him, as it is to prep him for what’s to come.

 

This whole time, you’ve been untouched. You hadn’t needed it. Your cock has been in varying states of attention from the moment you spread your legs over the turbo speeder with him at your back. And now, you’re so hard that you could break something with your dick.

 

You’d like to break _him_.

 

You cover him with your body and drop a reassuring kiss upon his lips. He’s breathing rapidly with nervous anticipation as his legs hook over your shoulders. You taste fear on his tongue and smell desire on his sweat-slicked skin. Your cock slides along his erection as your hips curl in a slow, sinuous motion.

 

You angle your cock to nestle in the spit-wet crease of his ass. You’ve only teased his hole with the head of your cock, and he reacts as if you’ve shattered him.

 

“Oh _FUCK_. Kylo…” His voice is the shivering sound of pleasure modulated by terror. The sound of someone who suddenly regrets what he’s done after he’s jumped off a cliff.

 

You can’t stop now. You are too far gone and nothing else will satisfy you.

 

“Please,” you whisper beseechingly into his mouth before nipping his bottom lip. _I need to be inside you_ , you tell him without speaking aloud.

“But you already are…” his words are a trembling, breathy exhale.

 

And that’s when you realize that he’s shaking because you are lodged so deep inside his mind that you are manipulating all of his senses, touching him without feeling it.

 

You are fucking him with the power of The Force.

 

You are stunned by the fact that you were able to do it without even trying and without meaning to. To suddenly become aware that you’ve disassociated from your own power is truly horrifying.

 

You regain control of your own mind. You screw your eyes shut and fight to reconnect with the part of yourself that you unwittingly put inside of him. With an electric jolt, you are there, metaphysically lodged so deep in his body that the pleasure is too much to process.

 

All the colors of the stars bloom behind closed lids as pleasure washes over you in a hot, slow wave. You feel him all around you. You feel him with his own skin. You feel him feeling _you_. It is a confusing positive feedback loop of ecstasy that threatens to make you come.

 

He feels it too. He’s never felt intimacy at this depth, never felt _anything_ so intensely in his life. He’s overwhelmed and scared because this is so utterly out of his scope of comprehension and of his control. His skin glistens in the firelight with a sheen of sweat, though he shivers beneath you. His breath is shallow and rapid. He’s entangled in emotions that he doesn’t know what to do with, gripped by inescapable pleasure, and this feeling of being trapped heightens his panic.

 

In the here-and-now, you hold his face in your hands and you kiss him to comfort him. Remorse and guilt and sympathy, all borne out of love, threaten to make you withdraw. But you won’t stop pushing inside him. You feel like you could die if this connection were suddenly broken. He just has to take it. You’ve suffered for him. He can very well suffer for you.

 

Somewhere on a shared plane of consciousness, he speaks to you. _Kylo, this is too much._ His voice makes you panic, because you’ve never heard him sound so afraid before.

 

Too much momentum has built up for you to stop now. You rut against him and fuck him hard without actually breeching his hole, but it feels like you are balls deep. His fingers gouge red tracks across your back. You feel his hot breath on your mouth as he pants feverishly. You feel his pulse rise exponentially to match the restless rhythm of your own.

 

He arches sharply beneath you. He screws his eyes shut, but you know he can still see the entire dominion of his galactic empire spread out before him.

 

“ _All my fucking moons and stars_.” With a staccato, breathless rhythm, he blasphemes the closest thing he has to deities, and he comes. _HARD_.

 

An astonishing amount of his hot essence spurts forth from his pulsing cock and it splatters your abdomen. On the inside, you feel the devastating intensity of his orgasm like a seismic shift. Each moan is unfettered as it erupts from his gaping mouth. You have never known this man to be so unrefined, so free, and so acquiescent to his base desires as he is right now. And it is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

 

His lips taste of dried blood and sin when you kiss him. You breathe your love into his open mouth. “You are mine… You are mine… You are mine.” You whisper it like a mantra and offer reverent kisses as sacrifices between each declaration. But praying these words will never make them true.

 

You have always been a ravenous demon and The Force is no longer enough to satiate you. He is riding that post-orgasmic high so fucking hard right now that he doesn’t even fight you when you slick his hole with his own come and tear into him without compunction.

 

The entirety of his body tenses beneath you as he cries out in pain. He gazes up at you, brow deeply furrowed, looking completely betrayed. _You promised._

 

He’s still so fucking tight and unprepared to take your cock, but you give it to him anyway. It hurts him enough to chase away his bliss, and his hands clamp upon your hips in a fruitless attempt to ease your punishing rhythm.

 

He grits his teeth and his words quake with indignation while you pound into him. “Ren, you bloody promised… _Ren_ , you arsehole, you’re hurting me.” When you ignore him, he launches into a tirade so typical of him that it amuses you. “ _REN,_ are you fucking listening to me? Damn it _,_ I will _NOT_ be _IGNORED! …REN,_ you selfish prick _, GET OFF!”_

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” you laugh breathlessly, still jackhammering away.

 

“You think this is funny? I am your _EMPEROR_ , goddamn it!” He’s doing that thing with his finger when he addresses the public, pointing at nothing as he brings his hand down hard to punctuate the operant word.

 

He looks so ridiculous – hair mussed, face reddened, trying to exert his imperial dominance while taking his dark knight’s fat cock up his prissy, tight, ass.

 

You pry his hand off your hip and pin his arms to the ground on either side of his head with your fingers shackling his wrists. “I’m so close, just, please…”

 

“I _HATE_ you,” he spits out wrathfully, and ceases to be amusing.

 

Your hand flies to his throat and your touch is not quite a caress, but not entirely malicious either. You crash your lips against his and feel his teeth gnash while you try to probe his mouth with your tongue. This is the only way he can fight you, and even this small show of resistance is frustrating.

 

You slow your hips, lodge so deeply inside him that he could split in two, and you hold there. “Say it again and I will squeeze the life out of you,” you threaten without having to raise your voice – you never have to.

 

He flashes the sort of smug grin that makes you want to punch him in the face. “You wouldn’t dare,” he says disdainfully.

 

“Don’t test me, Brendol.” Your grasp tightens slightly.

 

“I saw it, Kylo. When you were fucking me with your _freakish_ Jedi mind trick,” he says contemptuously, “You put all of your secrets inside me when you invaded my mind and my body.”

 

You become deathly still. He’s not bluffing. You wonder what else you had done unwittingly when you had lost control of The Force. You ease your grip on his throat and wrist only a fraction to let him speak.

 

“You will fuck me until I bleed. You will brutalize me until I bruise in the shape of your hands. But you will not kill me.” He sounds so sure that he’s smug, and it makes you want to wring his pretty little neck.

 

“You won’t kill me, as long as you love me.” Then he reaches up with his free hand to trace your bottom lip with his thumb. He whispers, “You won’t kill me, as long as _I_ love _you_.” His silver eyes hold your gaze. The adoration reflected back at you weakens your resolve.

 

“Do you?” you whisper.

 

He doesn’t hesitate when he replies breathily, “I do.” He pulls you down for a kiss and repeats the words directly into your waiting mouth, “I do love you.”

 

He shakes the world and brings you to your proverbial knees to fall apart at his feet. He is your king, your companion, your sovereign lover.

 

He takes your hand from his throat and laces his fingers with yours. His eyes could hypnotize you and his sibilant, sensual drawl could pull a violent orgasm from you in the absence of touch. “Come inside me, Kylo. Make me yours.”

 

Your hips move again, but this time, slowly. You draw out every thrust into a languid slide so that you can savor his warmth from the very tip of your erection to the very base of your soul. And this time, you pull moans of abject bliss from his kiss-bruised lips. You take his renewed arousal into your hand and fist his cock to the unhurried rhythm of your hips.

 

You pull back to rest on your haunches so that you may enter him at a more pleasing angle. Plus, the view from this vantage point is quite nice. He’s splayed out beneath you, arms resting in pleasured abandon by his head, legs folded back elegantly, the remnants of his come glistening on his flat abdomen.

 

He’s not in any hurry to come again, so he languishes beneath the press of you cock just for the sake of pleasure, not hinging upon gratifying a dire need. His eyes are closed and his breathing is so relaxed – you could mistake him for sleeping, but the quiet, wanton sounds that he makes reassures you that he’s not. You could fuck him like this for hours – slow and simmering and so damn perfect.

 

It’s _too_ perfect.

 

You can’t come this way. Sex and pain have always been mutually exclusive for you. He can’t give you one without the other.

 

You splay your hands over his chest. He feels sticky and warm. His heart beats steadily beneath your open palm.

 

“Tell me again,” you entreat softly.

 

He doesn’t need clarification. He closes his eyes, takes in a long, inward breath, and exhales lazily. “I love you.”

 

You reverently trace his collarbones with your thumbs. “Look at me when you say it.” Your hips move with more purpose.

 

His eyes are cold and empty when he says with very little emotion, “I love you, Kylo. I want to make you come.”

 

You don’t know this man – this person wearing the Emperor’s body, speaking like a jaded whore. Your fingers creep towards his neck. You peer into him, afraid of what you will inevitably find.

 

“Liar,” you hiss with resentment.

 

If he can’t feel anything for you after what you had just experienced, he is never going to love you, no matter how brilliantly you fuck him or how spectacularly you make him come. You are incredibly embittered by this realization.

 

Your hands clamp down around his throat. His eyes go wide. His fingers claw at yours in a useless attempt to free himself from your tight grasp. He can’t manipulate you or deceive you if he can’t speak... or breathe.

 

You fuck him with the sort of ruthless force that you require to achieve your release – the way he was afraid that you would fuck him – the way you promised that you would not. He anticipated that you would fuck him until he bled, and he was not wrong.

 

Horror is painted across his expression in the color palette of a bruise. Jagged, red lines shoot across the whites of his eyes as blood vessels burst. Dark pupils dilate wide, eclipsing the silver irises. His lips go from lovely pink to cyanotic blue.

 

You growl like a furious monster when you come, nearly strangling him to death as you reach a spiteful climax. It doesn’t give you as much pleasure as it should because you feel that you’ve been played. It cheapens the moment. You release his neck and leave him with your come in his ass and a ring of bruises around his throat.

 

He’s gasping and coughing, desperately swallowing air. You watch him with a sad sort of detachment. He is never going to be what you want him to be.

 

He crawls away, still wheezing and retching. When you realize that he’s fishing around the pockets of his discarded coat for his blaster pistol, you use The Force to send the gun flying across the hut. You summon the hilt of your lightsaber and switch it on. The plasma blade comes blazing to life with a familiar hum that resonates with your dark side.

 

He puts his hands up in surrender, but his words are anything but resigned. His voice is hoarse when he says, “If you kill me, the whole of my Empire will come down on you without mercy. I am a god to these people. They will tear you to pieces.”

 

“Oh, so now it’s _your_ empire,” you say with thinly veiled sarcasm, approaching him menacingly, casting a red glow over his naked form. “A moment ago you had adamantly declared that it wasn’t. What happened to the Triumvirate?” You tilt your head questioningly.

 

“It ceased to be a triumvirate when you attempted to kill me,” he declares.

 

“That was not an attempt, Hux. If I had made a real attempt on your life, we’d not be having this conversation right now.” You poise your lightsaber at the side of his neck.

 

He flinches upon instinct, but then stares you down defiantly.

 

For a long while, it is just him on his knees and you on your feet with the lightsaber buzzing between you as you glare at each other silently.

 

“You can’t do it now, can you, Ren?” he drawls. It is not a question, but an observation.

 

You bring the plasma blade so close to his skin that the downy hairs on his neck singe and send an acrid stench into the air. Your outstretched arms tremble. You hate that you are so weakened by love. You swing the lightsaber away from him and shred the bone walls of the hut with fury and self-loathing.

 

While you are taking out your frustrations on the crumbling shelter, Hux scrambles for the blaster pistol and manages to shoot your wrist. The bastard always had impeccable aim. You drop your damaged weapon and the plasma blade fizzles out. There is a perfect, clean hole through your wrist. The heat of the laser has cauterized the wound, so you can’t even bleed like a proper martyr of love. The bone is shattered within the scorched flesh. You tap into the hot, searing pain and let it fuel your blinding rage.

 

Negative energy radiates from your core in a seismic blast, sending Hux flying into the wall. His skull hits ossified bone, leaving him unconscious. You take his blaster pistol. But you don’t have it in you to take his life. Or his clothes.

 

You resign never to go back over the summit of The Highland.

 

 

By the time Hux returns to the imperial palace with a very plausible story involving kidnap, rape, and an assassination attempt, you are deep in the wilderness beyond the Kartolith ruins. Phasma is incensed to the point of launching an all-out war against a single fugitive. She sends a squadron of Stormtroopers, all-terrain vehicles, and sentry pilots to find you and kill you on sight.

 

But they never find you. You are resourceful and resilient. You know how to stay hidden and how to survive on your own in the wild.

 

You had dreamed of being this free, and now that you are, you are disappointed. What is freedom in a world where you are all alone? You wallow in despair because it is easier than trying to make a life for yourself. You miss your infernal, ginger-haired, sovereign lover like a lost limb. You wear gloves to hide the gruesome scar on your wrist, but you can still feel the phantom pain of it every day, and it reminds you of him. You hate him. You love him. You hate him. You love him. You are slowly going mad.

 

 

It will be fifteen cycles of the Imperial Calendar before you venture over the summit again. You will descend into the river valley on an endless winter night, just like the one upon which you’d left. You will pass through Heims like a ghost. Nobody will be looking for you anymore. You will easily slip into Adorian unnoticed, manipulating The Force to topple every Imperial Guardtrooper, one by one, like gold toy soldiers.

 

You will infiltrate the palace compound and penetrate the Emperor’s private residence. There, you will find his two boys, peacefully asleep in their beds. They will have their mother’s platinum hair and their father’s beautiful, cold countenance. At the age of eleven and thirteen respectively, they will meet their end by the plasma blade of your lightsaber – but not easily. Of course, their warrior-empress of a mother will have taught them how to fight. Of course, their paranoid father will have stashed daggers and blaster pistols in their mattresses.

 

You will find The Empress in her dressing chamber, attended by the squire droids who have just removed her armor. She will fight you whilst naked, like a goddess of war, but even she will go down screaming bloody vengeance before you cut her head clean off her lofty shoulders. It will feel more satisfying than any time you have ever fucked her.

 

You will find The Emperor in his bed. When you bring the plasma blade of your lightsaber to his neck just like you did in the Kartolith ruins, he will look at you exactly the same way. Unmoving. Unbreakable.

 

You will hesitate. And he will smirk.

 

“After all this time, Ren? You _still_ love me?” he will ask.

 

You will not need to answer him, because he will see it in your eyes.

 

When the crimson blade of your lightsaber passes through his throat, you will feel it more than ever.

 

“Always.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The very last exchange between Kylo and Hux was an homage to Severus Snape. RIP Alan Rickman.


End file.
